


Bittersweet Degradation

by ShianneUrami



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gore, M/M, Necrophilia, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShianneUrami/pseuds/ShianneUrami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts in your mind and behind your eyes laugh and mock you and it’s his voice, your own voice. He tells you that not even the dead want to listen to you, nobody wants anything to do with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Degradation

You’ve never really taken time to look at yourself, never stopped at the mirror unless you had to. Too many teeth, too many horns, cheeks like daggers and eyes that just weren’t ever right. A long sharp nose and deep bags under your eyes. You had never bothered looking at yourself. You hate yourself enough as it is, the look of your body wouldn’t be much of a help in that respect.

They’d cried though, after you’d pushed yourself and the meteor harder than anyone would have expected. You did it though, you fucking died for them. And they cried over your dead body. They mourned. Trolls don’t mourn, not for each other. It made you feel like you were actually worth something to them.

After the chaos though, after you’d had a few people hug you, and a quiet muttering of thanks, you’d been able to really look at yourself. It was you laying there in puddles of drying gold. You wondered how much of it was blood and how much was bile, how much was piss. You wonder how much was your melted brain. Bubbling from the eyes, the nose, the ears, the mouth. You’d really done a number on yourself.

Lifeless under your hand, the troll under your touch isn’t so bad looking. He was heroic and kind of handsome. A strong jaw and sharp striking features. Thin eyebrows and wide shoulders, if a bit bare of meat with an exposed collarbone you have a strange urge to bite. You don’t really see what had been so appalling before, there had to be a reason you had people paying you any mind past being a pitiful, miserable wreck of a troll. A troll can be the most despicable sad creature but if it doesn’t LOOK nice, you’re not gonna wanna kiss it, are you?

You run your fingers through the blood on your face, on his face. It comes away sticky some places, crusty others. When you are alone with him, with yourself, you pull his body into your lap. He’s still, lifeless and you hate to admit that you hoped that pulling him close, he might stir. He doesn’t though, and that’s fine. You’d put in a lot and died, and it’s alright that this body finally sleeps.

Nails trace clavicle, up the throat with no pulse, over the jaw and across the cheeks, over the eyes just barely cracked but hollow, deep recesses into the skull. You dipped your head, brushing your lips across his, across yours. Your mind shifts, thinking he might breathe again, God Tier under your gentleness, but it doesn’t work like that and you remember. His chest doesn’t rise under your hand but you grip your shirt, stained with carnage and turn his head more, pulling him closer, pushing your tongue past slack lips.

There is no resistance, for obvious reasons, but he tastes familiar. He tastes like blood and yeah, bile, but under the gore you can taste familiarity. It’s soothing. That’s probably a strange thought, that you find the taste of your death soothing, but it’s true. Your tongue swipes his, wrapping and threading through it’s mirror without fight and you hum quietly at the hint of warmth still lingering there. You grab a horn and pull his head higher, kissing him deeply, running your tongue over broken teeth and bare gums, lapping up the gore.

He doesn’t kiss you back though, and it’s both irritating and reassuring. He is dead. You’re dead. This you finally gets to rest, but he’s gone so long before he should have been. You left so much that needed to be done, how could you croak like this? With a quiet growl, a snarl playing at the edges of your lips you shake his horn, trying to rouse him, anger rising in you. He has so much work to do! And he’s lifeless in your arms. You’ve wasted a chance to do something with your useless husk of a body and ragged scraps of a mind. You’re so fucking angry!

The kiss turns forceful, harsh and you bite his lip. You expect a hiss of breath, a hand with claws on your arm and he doesn’t move and it just serves to make you angrier. You trill at him, an anxious sound rattling in your chest, try to find words to chastise him, tell him how much of a useless piece of shit he is, but you can’t manage, so you just bite and tug and your claws sink into his skin.

You can rip the planet in half with your mind and this slag is laying here, useless and broken. It figures though, doesn’t it? You hate him so much. He’s not doing anything. Your claws break skin, slice through flesh, and you expect a spurt of blood or a whimper of pain, something other than the perpetual silence echoing from his chest. He doesn’t even bleed properly. It’s a fucking disappointment. You expect so much from him and he gives nothing. You give nothing.

The taste of the carnage stirs something in you and you hate that almost as much as you hate him, hate yourself. A stirring of primal need and lust for the blood and the pain. You want him to be better, you want to make him be better. He’s a disgrace. He should be better than this! You’re better than this! You growl and rake your claws into his chest, you want to break him open and rip out all that he is. You want to hollow him out and hopefully he’ll be better off as something other than what he is.

The blood stained on your teeth and the taste thick, coating the back of your tongue, dripping down your chin and down your hands, it’s almost surreal because it’s your blood but you’re not hurt. Except you hurt, so badly. Your chest aches and you can’t get enough air, it feel like there’s something lodged there, settled in next to your bloodpusher and it stings. The body under you is so pliant, moves so easily with your whim. You bite out more curses down at him and still, you get no reply. Ghosts in your mind and behind your eyes laugh and mock you and it’s his voice, your own voice. He tells you that not even the dead want to listen to you, nobody wants anything to do with you. Your claws catch against one of his ribs and you dig in as hard as you can push and wrap your fingers around that rib bone. With a roll of your hips you pull and it breaks with a sick crack that makes your stomach flip with nausea and pleasure.

You don’t stop there because the stirring inside of you wasn’t just feeling and emotion, it was more, deeper. You can feel your bulges writhing just behind your sheathe and you’re fast growing damp. You want to fuck him, assert your dominance and push him to assert his over you, challenge you and best you. He won’t, but you want to challenge him to do so anyway. Tearing up his flesh, it feels good under your hands, the resistance of his meat and bone against your claws makes you want to rip harder, dig deeper. You want to render him useless and obsolete. He deserves it.

With the first rib broken and your nook dripping, you can’t help but push more, break more. You snarl in his face and grind into him again, dragging claws to his hips and hissing when you feel the tip of your bulges slide free. You have no remorse for his pants, popping seams when you pull them off him and breaking the zipper. He doesn’t move to help you, lazy fuck. You bite at his tattered lips and lick at him. Pulling his pants off him, hanging off one knee is about as far as you care to bother. Your fingers brush feather light over his hips and his sheath and you drag the back of a claw across the line of his nook. He doesn’t stir.

Your pants are off almost as fast, but you make sure not to damage them. you have to wear them when you go back to the others. You groan when you push your briefs off your ass to your knees and your bulges whip free, recoiling a bit at the cool air. You shiver and spark just a bit, licking over your lips and savoring the blood there.

With his pants off you know out of bodily reflex he pissed himself, you can smell it and part of you should be disgusted but it just makes you hate him more. It makes your nook flutter. You swallow hard and lean back over him, naked under your hands, his shirt long since in tatters. You’ve done a number on his torso, clawing and tearing. Leaning over him you can get at him again, his shoulders and his chest and his throat. His face.

Bulges trace slow, languid lines over his hips and groin, hoping for something to tangle with, some fun, but no, he gives you nothing. Couldn’t even make himself useful in the most basic instinctual way, it’s disappointing. They find his nook though, dry and dead and they hold nothing back, slicking across the folds and spreading the slurry, messy and bright. Your fingers dig into his ribs again and you wrap fingers around another rib and when you pull, you snap your hips forward and when you are seated fully, it’s with the crack of the bone under your hand to punctuate it.

An arch of the back, a gasped breath, a crackle of psionics. Nothing. You get nothing.

He’s so tight around you and you sink your teeth into his throat again and rock up into him, whimpering pathetically, slicking up his nook with your own fluids. A huff of breath and you pull your teeth from his throat, raking deep lines with them and spit blood in his face. Another roll of your hips and you grab him by one of his larger primary horns.

“Move!” You demand.

“Why won’t you jutht fucking MOVE? Give me thomething! Anything!” You yell in his face. It gets you nowhere but it makes you feel a bit better, and then when the good feeling fades you feel even anger and bitterness replace it.

You bite at his lips, at his nose, try to spur him to just give a flutter of a breath, a little crackle maybe. When he still lays still, it’s the last straw and you want to flay him nook to nose! You sit up, still rocking into him and drag your claws through maimed flesh until you have a hold on his hips, thrusting into him hard and fast. Normally you wouldn’t have to move at all but he’s so tight that your bulges are just struggling to push him apart, even with their lubrication slicking his insides your color. His color. Some pistoning never hurt anyone. Except those it did. But that hurt felt good.

When you pull back, you push him forward just a bit and when you snap your hips into him, you pull him back down harsh against your bulges, your chest heaving with the work. He’s so tight and with your work, warm and wet too. It almost makes up for him being a useless disappointing husk of a troll! Almost.

You lean over him again, holding his hip with one hand and the other with fingers lacing through his hair, matted with blood. You hate him. Why is he so fucking awful? Why are you so awful? What did you ever do to deserve this bullshit? You knew you were going to die and you can remember the echo of your own shallow breaths before you finally stopped breathing, the last will and testament of doom was forced out as tiny gasps, wet with internal bleeding. When you press your lips to his torn ones, your own doing, it’s only then that you realize there are tears running down your face.

So fucking pathetic. Such a disgrace. You had important things to do. You’re not a hero, you waste of space. You’re disgusting and you hate yourself more than anything else in this universe. You hate yourself so much it makes you sick.

Your chest aches and at first it’s just heavy breathing, and it turns to low sobs against his skin, bucking into him and dripping down your thighs. Your guts twist with the approaching orgasm and it lurches with residual nausea from just how much you hate the body under you. You could say the troll under you but without his broken mind in his crumbling pan, he’s not really allowed to be called a troll anymore. Not really. Did he ever really have that privilege? If he did, he never deserved it.

You grit out a hiss through your teeth, a shudder of breath to try to stop crying but you can’t, and it’s all his fault. Still thrusting hard enough to rock him entirely, fast and sharp your toes curl and the red hot spiral of pleasure in your gut finally snaps under the pressure you’ve been putting on it. The hatred and the pleasure and the deep seated agony you feel threatening to turn you inside out at the core of yourself. It’s too much and you spill over, filling him with a rush of gold.

Tucked into his torn apart throat you shiver, the cold out here finally reaching you after the warmth leeches from your muscles. You lick over your lips, lick the blood from them and taste the salt from your pathetic sobbing. When you blink another trail of tears flows and you swallow the lump of mucus and sadness in your throat, trying to force it down.

Pulling out of him, you steal the remains of his ruined shirt and clean yourself up, mopping up the gold clinging to your skin. When your bulges retreat, tucking themselves back where they belong you look him over. You do and you gag. He’s dead, a torn up mess of a troll, broken and you just used him as a bucket because you couldn’t stand the thought of him. You still can’t. Part of you still wants to rip him up, tear him apart. But looking at him now, dripping genetic material, his torso in shambles from where you tore into it, broken bones and a mess of ruined flesh and dried blood. 

You are disgusted with yourself. Not him, but yourself. Using his ruined shirt you mop him up a bit too but it’s pointless and you just drop it on his groin to try to cover what you’ve done, but you can’t even look at him. You can’t look at yourself. Your stomach lurches again and you stumble to your feet, pulling your pants on and straightening your shirt. You can’t stay here. You can’t be around yourself right now.

Looking him over one more time you take off with a crack of psionics, unable to stand there anymore. You don’t want to be anywhere near him. But the farther away you get, back into the labs to find someone, anyone other than yourself, you find yourself laughing. It’s bitter and sad and makes your chest ache even more. You laugh because it’s honestly funny. It’s honestly one of the funniest things you’ve thought about and it’s so ridiculously fucking pathetic it makes you want to cry all over again.

You can never really run from yourself, can you Sollux?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: http://syblatortue.tumblr.com/post/48102449021/i-had-no-idea-if-you-meant-dead-as-in-blank-eyes


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